


pull down your sleeves (hide a little longer)

by orphan_account



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Abuse, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Past Abuse, Self Confidence Issues, Self Harm, mentions of depression
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-18
Updated: 2014-04-18
Packaged: 2018-01-19 20:26:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1482775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Simmons pulled his sleeves down gently, picking at a loose thread as he stared at his hands in his lap. Another day in the boiling heat, another day of keeping a secret he wasn’t even sure he needed to keep anymore.</p><p>He was sure they didn’t care. </p><p>Until they did. And he realised just how amazing Red Team could be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	pull down your sleeves (hide a little longer)

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by (I don't know how the fuck to link I'm sorry) Shinju_Tori's fic which led to Don't Break the Mirror (Break My Heart Instead) by thewhoopingblob.tumblr.com and they're both fantastic go check them out
> 
> written from 11pm-4am respectively you can probably see the curve of emotions from outer space  
> and then reedited at 12am last night so it's not well edited or well read over but I wanted to put it out there  
> this fandoms small and there's not much pressure I LIKE IT HERE

Simmons pulled his sleeves down gently, picking at a loose thread as he stared at his hands in his lap. Another day in the boiling heat, another day of keeping a secret he wasn’t even sure he needed to keep anymore.

He was sure they didn’t care.

Why would they? Nobody else did. They were just like the last group he was drafted with.

Well, that was a bit harsh. They were a lot nicer, Grif and Sarge, Donut and Lopez. Sure, they weren’t the best to get along with, but he knew they didn’t hate him.

Still. They wouldn’t care. Just like the others.

He knew this, but he still kept trying to justify it to himself. He knew how they would react, what they would say, what they would do, but he still could barely build the courage to go through with what he was thinking.

He knew that if they walked in on him hurting himself, they’d probably just tell him to clean up. Grif might complain, though he may have more tact then that. He wondered if they’d yell at him, or just ignore it. They’d have to mention it, if they walked in on it, it was too confronting to avoid. Maybe not if they just noticed the scars…

If they just saw the marks, casually, then they could avoid it. Sarge would probably make some uncomfortable excuse to get away. Grif would probably feel obliged to ask if he was okay, make some failure of an inspirational comment, and never bring it up again.

Lopez, of course, would not care, and that didn’t bother Simmons in the slightest. Donut would probably care, but it wouldn’t be directed at Simmons. The boy just hated violence, hated seeing people hurt, and it was his nature to care.

So that’s what he would get. The worst thing would be the uncomfortableness, and Simmons was long used to uncomfortable situations.

At least, if they knew, he wouldn’t have to worry about having to do it at night. He could probably do it during the day and nobody would care, they’d know to avoid the room. He wouldn’t have to make stupid fucking excuses up about the mirrors always being broken, or covered. He could wear short sleeves around the base, and shorts.

That would be amazing.

Simmons’ care factor for the (non-existent?) negative consequences had been falling for a long time. He’d long stopped making believable excuses, and nobody had questioned him. But when he was first placed with the red team, he’d been meticulous about hiding it, terrified of getting a repeat of last time.

He couldn’t handle it. He couldn’t handle another repeat of the bullying, the abuse, so he spent long months picking up every piece of glass from mirrors he had smashed and making sure he was always in his armour, always covered.

Fuck, he practically slept in the suit at first.

Now, though, he found himself in just long sleeves more and more. Glass shards littered his floor where he couldn’t bother vacuuming. Blood stained his sheets, his clothes. It would stain the walls and the floor if he wasn’t sharing a room with Grif.

He could remember his last room in the last unit he’d lived with. Before they’d found out, it had been bad, but afterwards it had been so much worse.

Before, it had been a few drops on the floor, a stain or two if he lost himself too much. Some on the sheets, all over his sink, his bathroom. His bathroom walls would be painted red, words and angry marks covering almost every spare tile.

After, his entire room seemed to resonate with red, even the sleeping area. His entire floor was stained from several times he’d bled almost all his life force into it. His room had matched the bathroom.

It was the masterpiece of over a year’s worth of hatred, of hurting, of violence and a desire to hurt himself to the point of death.

He hadn’t bothered cleaning up. He’d sunk into a shell of apathy, and when that failed him, self-hatred. He’d never felt guilt for making a mess towards the end, because it wasn’t him doing it anymore.

Towards the end, he’d barely hurt himself at all. The others did it for him.

That was one of the worst things at first. Why was he placed with the worst people on all the planets? Why did they encourage his hurting so? Why did they take the blade from his hand and help scar his body for him?

Why did they laugh?

He knew why, now. He’d learned.

He deserved it.

Even if it hadn’t of made complete sense, it was the only realistic option left. He’d seen the men in his unit around each other, around girls, around friends and acquaintances and higher ups. And never had _anyone_ received the same treatment Simmons had.

They’d told him repeatedly he was useless, pathetic, worthless, but he’d never cared. Their words had never bothered him. He didn’t care about them, about what they said, about the fact that towards the end their only interaction with him was to come in his room at night and carve lines into his body.

That when they’d found out he was leaving, they’d celebrated every night until he was gone and probably every night after.

God, he was disgusting. He briefly entertained the thought of Grif walking in on him, of Grif taking the blade from his hands and pressing it to his wrist for him. Of him taking it back and forth across Simmons’ arm, of a cruel sneer as Simmons whimpered into the bed sheets.

Would Grif do that?

Probably not. He’d just look at Simmons, at what could be seen of his ruined body, and do his best to ignore it for the rest of his life.

Surely he heard the mirror shattering at night from Simmons' scarred fists. Surely he woke to Simmons’ cries, to his muffled sobs.

With a pang of emotion, Simmons realised he must already know.

He’d walked in on him before.

Simmons remembered. He’d walked in and immediately backed out, apologising and saying he should have said he was busy. Simmons had hoped he hadn’t seen it, but now he realised, Grif had seen everything.

It’s why he never commented on the glass in the floor. It’s why he never asked about the blood on Simmons’ sheets, or the drops on the floor that led to the bathroom. It’s why he never asked why Simmons wore long sleeves all the time, and sweatpants, even during training and when it was approaching fourty degrees outside.

His head fell, and hot tears stung his eyes. The revelation had hit him fast. He must have been in denial about it, telling himself Grif had probably thought he was doing something else. But fuck, it made too much sense for that to be believable.

Of course Grif knew. There’s no way he had been Simmons’ roommate this long without figuring it out.

It was good that he didn’t care. It would make tomorrow so much easier.

So why was he hurt? Why was he surprised? This was good, right?

He could wear short sleeves now. And shorts. He missed those.

He had to focus on the good things. It’s how he survived. He wondered again if any of them would actively encourage it.

In his mind’s eye, the door burst open, and the three men from his previous squad were surrounding him.

It was a flashback, a repeat of the first night they’d ever held him down and hurt him. It was the night after they’d found out what he did to himself, and it only fuelled the fire of hate they’d had burning for him since he’d arrived.

‘Hold him down,’ they had said, taking the blade from Simmons shaking hand, pushing his limp body back into the bedframe. Simmons watched from what felt like far away as they sneered ugly words at him.

‘You do this to yourself? We’ll do it better.’

‘Get him, G, carve one right up his arm.’

‘Fucking- hold him down, I don’t want to touch him.’

‘You got blood on you, G-’

He was left a bleeding, broken mess on the floor. That was the first time they ever attacked him, and the only time they’d ever done it together. He supposed it was too awkward for all of them to do it together.

By the end of it, Simmons had been some form of relief for them. It seemed like whenever they needed him, he was sitting on his bed with a blade in his hand and some skin exposed. They would walk in, whoever it was that day, and just slice at him.

Only for a few minutes. Then they’d sneer at him and leave.

He blinked himself back into reality, leaning down and putting his head in his hands. He still didn’t understand why Grif at least hadn’t come in here and done it. Maybe he didn’t understand he was supposed to.

But it was so obvious! He was so _weak_! So pathetic and useless, he was clearly the option for it. But despite how he waited, despite how he held his breath whenever they held a knife or a blade, they hadn’t turned it on him.

Even though they could easily overpower him. Even Donut could, and he was smaller. They still hadn’t done it, and though it didn’t make any sense, Simmons hadn’t spoken up.

He’d resumed doing it to himself. He had to get the relief, and it only made sense.

He thought about whether tomorrow would be the day to go out in short sleeves. But he didn’t want to make it uncomfortable for them, and he knew they’d probably dislike him even more for it. And despite what he told himself, he cared about them, and he didn’t want to further the rut that was already between them.

He had a feeling, however, that next time he felt selfish, felt sick of everything and the desire to just give up on all of them, give up on trying to force a friendship that nobody truly cared for but him, he would go out in a singlet.

Or maybe he’d just let Grif find him, bleeding out on the floor.

But that would be forcing the Hawaiian man to interact with him, and Simmons wanted to let him ignore it if it was possible. That was the most likely situation, and Simmons wanted to work with it.

They deserved better than to be forced to acknowledge him.

He knew they didn’t care, and he knew Grif already knew, or was at least sure. If he wanted to let them ignore it he’d have to make sure it was subtle. Maybe just flashing skin.

But that seemed a lot of work, especially when they wouldn’t care anyway. Or maybe they would turn on him.

He remembered his first days here. He remembered looking at each of them, at how powerful they all seemed. He remembered thinking he was going to die here, because they looked like they would cut deep if he crossed them wrong.

He remembered waiting the first night on his bed, shirt off and blood already leaking from wounds he’d made while he waited, hating himself for the weak thing he was.

He remembered watching the puddle on the floor grow. He remembered passing out and waking up the next morning with no extra wounds or any sign that somebody had come in. He remembered the overwhelming confusion.

Did they consider him so disgusting they wouldn’t even cut him? Were they ignoring him, like the other squad had at first, before they discovered the levels of his abomination?

He remembered thinking that must be so. He remembered waiting the next two nights just the same, waiting on his bed with his eyes trained on the door. He remembered the third night, where he’d pulled the blade out and sat on the bed. Before he could take his long sleeve off, he remembered…

He remembered Grif coming in. He’d looked so uncomfortable, shuffling on the spot.

‘Look, uh- This is my room, too, dude. I made sure to stay out till now so you could adjust because you’re really fucking shy, like holy shit, but I want a proper bed to sleep in.’ He’d said, and when Simmons had only blinked at him he frowned.

‘Why are you holding a fucking army knife, dude, it’s bed time. Unless you have some weird ritual, in which case, do it when I’m not around.’

Simmons had wondered if he was telling him only to cut in the bathroom when Grif was gone, and he didn’t say a word.

At the silence, Grif squirmed. ‘Alright, welp… Bedtime!’

And Simmons had begun to realise they weren’t going to hurt him. Not yet, at least.

But regardless, he had waited on the edge of his bed, his blade next to his pillow but out of view, a jacket or a long sleeve shirt covering his scars. But still, he had waited.  

He remembered when he’d truly fucked up the first time, destroying their food supply and leaving them with only very essential rations. He remembered Sarge screaming at him, remembered Grif spewing insults at him, remembered Donut hovering disappointedly in the corner.

He remembered he stumbled blindly away in fear, hyperventilating, running for what seemed like forever until he collapsed into his bedroom and waited. He hadn’t received any punches yet, but he figured they were saving it for later. Maybe after they’d cut him.

He remembered Grif complaining that night, bitching that he hadn’t left their room since, and Sarge had gone in to drag him out.

He remembered closing his eyes, body tensing and preparing under his thin clothes for the abuse he’d been waiting for since he’d arrived. He remembered raising his arms in a weak form of defence when Sarge stopped in front of him. He remembered opening his eyes, and seeing Sarge looking at him with what looked like… pity.

He remembered Sarge clapping him surprisingly gently on the back and telling him that ‘Everybody fucks up, son. Maybe not this bad, or at this magnitude, but everybody does. You just gotta man up and get over it. We’ll be waiting if you ever come out of this hellhole, it’s your turn to cook something up.’

He’d left, muttering something about how ‘he didn’t understand how Simmons could stand to room with Grif, the lazy bastard’, and Simmons remembered thinking he’d mixed their names up and why hadn’t he beat him what was going on-

He remembered the night after that was the first night in a year that he hadn’t spent on the side of his bed, waiting for somebody to come in and hurt him, or for Grif to walk over from his side of the room and do it.

Simmons smiled. See, they weren’t so bad. No, they didn’t care about him, but honestly, that was for the best. He was okay with them just not actively hurting him, as confusing as it was.

With a deep breath, Simmons decided that tomorrow was the day he’d go out in short sleeves. It would be very uncomfortable for all of them, but after the initial awkwardness, Sarge would leave, Grif would probably stare at him, Lopez would mutter something, and then Simmons could deflect the questions Donut would probably shoot at him and go back to his room all day.

He was positive nobody would bother him. They were, to an extent, good people, and if they felt obliged to try and talk to him, he’d make sure they knew he understood they didn’t have to.

They didn’t cut him up every night, and that was enough for Simmons.

But if they did react, he knew how it would be. If they looked twice, he knew why. They'd take it upon themselves to hurt him.

He just hoped they'd ignore him.

He put the blade in his hands down, realising his hands were stained red. He’d been cutting while he thought. He traced the tip of the blade with the pad of his thumb almost tenderly.

He went to the bathroom and cleaned up. Apprehension and fear curdled in his stomach. Tomorrow was the day.

Climbing into bed, he wondered if he was wrong about them. If after all, they would hurt him. He didn’t know if he could handle it. No, he knew he couldn’t.

He thought about tomorrow and fell asleep wondering if tonight would be the last night of his life.

\---

Morning came, and he was losing his nerve. He chastised himself, reminding himself that Grif already knew, Sarge wouldn’t care, he could handle Donut and Lopez wasn’t even factoring into this.

But being forced to face it might make them unhappy, and they might take it into their own hands. This could end so badly for him, and he’d only just stopped shaking every time he was around them.

The memories of his last squad would haunt him forever, but he knew he deserved it. He figured he’d had enough peace here, but at the same time felt bad for tempting the universe. He was practically asking for them to turn on him if he went out there dressed how he was now.

But wasn’t all he doing tempting fate? Wasn’t that his entire life?

Somehow surviving through all the blood loss, all the self-mutilation, all the beatings and being left for dead, it was all one big temptation for fate.

‘Simmons! Get your lazy ass out here _right now!_ ’ Grif demanded, voice coming from the direction of the kitchen.

‘You heard the man! Or… whatever he is.’ Sarge seconded, and Simmons heard Grif’s faint ‘Oi!’ before it fell silent again.

Simmons stood wearily, suddenly feeling much more tired. He leaned against the wall for what felt like a few seconds, but then he was hearing Sarge scream at him again and he realised he must have blanked out.

He couldn’t find the courage. He’d do it another day. He couldn’t handle it today.

His mind screamed insults at him as he pushed the door open and stepped outside, heading towards the kitchen with steps surprisingly light for how heavy he felt.

He rounded the corner and was met with silence. A second later, the sound of a cup smashing against the ground.

He raised his head to glare at Grif, who’d been the one to drop it, but the expression on his face made Simmons stop cold. The back of his neck heated up and he turned slowly, dread filling his gut as he saw Sarge and Donut sitting at the table, both frozen and staring open mouthed at him.

Simmons didn’t even need to glance down. He realised his mistake, far too late.

Donut stood up in a rush, knocking the chair back onto the floor with a clatter and quickly fleeing the room. Sarge stood, too, except much slower. His eyes remained on Simmons before he turned and followed Donut out of the room, calling out to him before he was out of earshot.

Lopez, who’d looked into the room at the commotion, left again.

That left Grif, who still hadn’t moved from where he’d dropped the cup. Simmons swallowed and turned back, fists clenched at his sides. He ignored the mess on the floor and reached shakily for another cup, setting it on the bench.

He placed the coffee next to it, but realised the sugar was next to the still immobile Grif. With a moment of bravery he reached past him, getting a surprising grip on the sugar despite how slippery his fingers were.

He could see his arm, could see the innumerable cuts and scars that were raised from his skin all over. There was barely any unscarred skin left, and it wasn’t an overstatement.

He tore his gaze away and went to pull back but Grif grabbed his arm, letting go a second later as if he’d been burned.

Simmons tried not to show how badly that scared him, choosing to pull back again after Grif had let go, placing the sugar next to the coffee as if everything was fine. He searched for a spoon and remembered they only had three, and two of them were in the sink behind Grif.

He raised his eyes to meet Grif’s but failed. He kept his gaze levelled on the ground, feeling the weight of the world on him.

Grif made a noise that was somewhere between a gurgle and being choked, and Simmons could barely figure out what it was before Grif was speaking semi-properly.

‘Simmons?’ he managed.

Simmons swallowed hard, trying to find his voice. He couldn’t seem to speak, throat closing up completely. This was worse than he’d thought. They hated him, and he’d upset Donut. He wondered if Grif was going to kill him.

‘Simmons?’ Grif repeated, his voice stronger now. Simmons remained staring at the floor, but he pulled his arms to his chest in a weak form of defence. Against what, Grif didn’t know.

There was a pause. ‘I don’t understand.’ Grif whispered, and Simmons felt shock surge through him before it was quickly beaten down. He swore he’d heard _pain_ , but that was impossible. ‘Why?’ Grif managed, voice breaking.

Simmons shivered. Was he imagining things?                                                                            

‘Look at me, Simmons, stop staring at the ground.’

The command was followed instantly, before Simmons could think twice. He blinked at the look in Grif’s eyes. It was like all the life came back to him, and Grif reached down and grabbed Simmons’ arm again, gentler this time, murmuring an apology just in case.

He ran it over with his eyes, turning it over to look at the underside. He reached for the other and breathed out hard, and when his eyes darted up to meet Simmons’ they were shining. ‘Why, Simmons?’ he asked again, and this time it was apparent he expected an answer.

Simmons’ mouth was dry, and he found himself scrambling for the answers he’d rehearsed last night. ‘It’s okay, Grif.’

‘What’s okay? This? Because this is _not okay!_ ’

The pain in his voice sounded far too real. Simmons was confused. He licked his lips and tried again. ‘You don’t have to pretend to care.’ he said, meeting Grif’s eyes to try and get his point across. He didn’t want Grif to feel like had to pretend to care, for whatever reason. To avoid awkwardness, to build him up- Simmons didn’t know.

‘ _What?’_

‘I said you don’t have to act like you care- I understand, believe me. It won’t change anything. I know.’

‘What are you talking about?!’ Grif demanded, voice cracking.

His heart began to race. This was confusing, why was he still- What was going on? ‘I _know_ you don’t- You don’t have to! Don’t you see, I’m letting you off the hook!’

‘What hook? I don’t want to be let off the hook! I want to know what the hell’s wrong!’

The itch began to build under Simmons’ skin. This was going wrong, what was happening? Grif was still staring at him, and he didn’t look disgusted, he looked _hurt._ He looked confused and upset, but Simmons couldn’t figure out _why._

‘Simmons, tell me, what’s going on? Why? Why didn’t you talk to us?!’

His breathing was picking up even further. ‘Stop!’ he burst out, glancing around wildly. ‘What are you doing?’

‘Trying to figure out-’

‘Please don’t do this!’ Simmons interrupted, and his eyes began to water. ‘Don’t! I can’t handle it-’ He broke off, reaching up with a fist that was usually curled inside a sleeve, wiping at his watery eyes. God, he was so fucking _weak._

‘Can’t handle what?’ Grif questioned, looking just as upset. He reached out but Simmons flinched away, which seemed to upset Grif more.

‘You! Any of you, pretending that you care! I know you don’t!’

‘What are you talking about, of course we do!’

This finally stopped Simmons. ‘What?’ he managed, eyes beginning to water in earnest. He started picking at the scars on his arms, trying to distract himself.

Grif stopped too, lowering his arms and hesitating. ‘We- We care about you. You- I don’t… We care about you…’ Simmons was staring at him in shock. Grif felt something break inside him. ‘You… you thought we didn’t?’

‘I… I know you don’t…’ but he wasn’t so sure now, he was confused, Grif could see the depths of pain in his eyes and he didn’t know how to fix it.

‘Simmons-’ his voice cracked and Grif started to cry, honest to God _cry,_ because he’d honestly thought none of them gave a fuck about him? ‘Jesus Christ.’ he managed, wiping furiously at his eyes, and Simmons was still staring at him with confusion and fear and Grif couldn’t even begin to explain how fucked up this was.

‘Jesus Christ,’ he said again, ‘you… I- We love you. You’re- You’re one of us, Simmons, you’re part of the team.’

‘I don’t…’ Simmons started, eyes glazing over as he tried to process it. ‘I don’t understand,’ he murmured, looking back up at Grif with wide eyes.

‘ _God!_ ’ Grif cried, moving forward and grabbing Simmons. He felt the violent flinch Simmons gave but ignored it, choosing to wrap his arms around him and just make sure he was physically _there,_ because mentally, he was all kinds of fucked up.

‘How do you think we don’t love you, you fucking idiot? You’re _Simmons,_ you’re the brains in everything, the voice of reason, the reason we get shit done- You’re part of the fucking backbone, here! You keep it together! We _need_ you, and you honestly thought not a single one of us would _give a fuck?!’_ Grif could feel the anger swelling in him now, and pulled back, wiping furiously at his eyes.

Simmons stared at him, lost. ‘I thought… Donut might be… curious.’

‘But you thought none of us would care.’ Grif repeated, voice hardening.

‘I thought you might hurt me.’ Simmons said, his voice nothing but a whisper, but Grif caught it and froze.

‘You… what?’

‘Hurt me.’

‘ _Why the **fuck-**_ ’

‘Everyone else did!’ Simmons burst out, instantly flinching away and raising his arms in self-defence. When Grif just stared at him, he continued. ‘You- My last squad- I don’t understand why you don’t hurt me-’

His voice cracked on the last word and he backed up a few steps, trying to put distance between them before Grif could lash out. He knew he was only using borrowed time but he was desperate to put it off for a few more moments, maybe make it easier-

‘Simmons, if you don’t tell me what you’re talking about _right now_ …’

The unspoken threat made Simmons throat close up, but he began speaking anyway, an involuntary reaction to an order from a squad mate. ‘I don’t know why you don’t come over at night, come into the bathroom and do it…’

‘Do what?!’

‘Hurt me! Why don’t you hurt me? Why don’t you come over when I’m doing it and take the blade from me?’

‘Do- do you want us to?’ Grif asked, disbelief and confusion mixing with the pain on his face.

At this, Simmons froze. ‘I-I don’t… what do you mean?’

‘Why would you expect us to fucking _cut you_? In what fucking universe does that make _any_ goddamn sense?!’

‘Everyone else did…’

‘Who is everyone else?’ Grif’s voice was soft now, and he moved slowly towards Simmons, hands out and palms facing downwards.

‘E-Everyone…’

‘Who’s hurt you?’ Grif murmured, gently coaxing Simmons to open up. 'Your last group? What happened?'

'Simmons, what did they do?'

‘They liked to- to cut me. They found out I did it to myself and they… started doing it.’

He stopped talking when Sarge re-entered, his first instinct being to back away. His breathing picked up. Grif didn’t seem to want to hurt him, but Sarge looked terrifying.

‘You’ll excuse me for eavesdropping,’ the man began, voice hard and words slow, ‘but if I’m hearing correctly, you’re telling me that your previous squad mates did this to you?’

Simmons’ eyes darted between Sarge and Grif, and when Grif nodded reassuringly at him, Simmons licked his lips and nodded jerkily.

‘And you just… let them.’

‘Sarge!’ Grif cried.

Simmons’ eyes watered. ‘At first, I couldn’t stop them, but by the end…’

‘By the end _what,_ son?’

Simmons’ stomach jerked at how he’d been addressed, conflicting emotions rolling and twisting inside. He forced himself to focus on the question being asked, tried to give them an answer that would solve the confusion.

‘I just… I let them,’ he whispered, shame and pain burning through his tone. ‘I know I deserved it, and if I tried to fight they’d just do worse, and… and…’

‘You’re saying your superior officer did nothing to stop this? Did he not know?’

‘He didn’t care,’ Simmons responded. ‘Why would-’

‘Please don’t tell me you were going to ask why he would care.’ Grif interrupted, shaking his head and looking at Simmons in pain. ‘Why do you think no one would care?’

After a beat of silence, Simmons murmured, ‘I don’t understand the question.’

‘ _What don’t you_ -’

‘I think what he’s _trying_ to ask is why you seem to think none of us would remain… unperturbed by all this.’

‘Because- you don’t… It’s… Why would you?’ Simmons eventually managed.

The look the both of them made him lower his head, confusion still swimming in his brain at the front and foremost, but… he was beginning to wonder if he’d made a mistake.

‘Stop looking at the ground, son, look at me when I talk to you.’ Sarge commanded.

Simmons raised his head, just in time to catch a flash of pink armour and an armful of something blonde. A few seconds later, he realised Donut was garbling to him, and his lightly freckled cheeks were tearstained.

‘Donut?’

‘Don’t do things like that, Simmons!’

‘What?’

‘It really upsets people, you know?’

‘But-’

‘No buts, mister,’ the smile Donut gave him was clearly forced, and Simmons couldn’t think of any other reason why Donut would be saying things like this-

‘He’s right, you know.’ Grif stated, his voice cracking. ‘You- We don’t _want_ you to- To do that.’

When Simmons stared blankly at him, nearly physically incapable of understanding the words being said after years and _years,_ after a _lifetime_ of abuse, or being told the opposite, Sarge spoke up from beside him.

‘I don’t know why on Earth anyone would want you to hurt yourself, boy, but we sure as hell don’t.’

Donut was nodding vigorously into his shoulder, from where he was still clinging on. ‘Never, ever. I’m always here to talk.’

‘Me too, even if it’s mega gay.’

‘Grif.’ Sarge growled. ‘I suppose I’ll always be open to talk, if it prevents… other… alternatives.’

‘See, Simmons? We love you!’

‘Not _that_ kind of love.’ Grif mumbled quickly, cheeks a bright shade of red.

‘Actually, I heard you saying earlier-’

‘Shut up, Donut.’ Grif and Sarge chorused. They looked at each other and turned back to Simmons.

‘Do you understand what we’re saying?’ Sarge asked.

‘I just…’ Simmons managed, overwhelmed by everything.

‘He’s just having trouble accepting it because he’s spent a lifetime being abused and hurt by the people he cared about and or trusted.’ Donut stated, as if it was so clearly comprehensible to people who’d known nothing of Simmons problems until half an hour ago.

‘I’m…’

‘He probably still expects us to hurt him. In fact, I can tell from the way he keeps flinching every time somebody speaks that he thinks we’re either lying or about to change our minds and hurt him anyway. I imagine he hasn’t adjusted to the idea we weren’t going to actively hurt him.’

‘But he’s been here for so long! We’ve never hurt him!’ Grif interjected.

They were talking about him like he wasn’t here, and he didn’t even mind. It was nice to be overlooked for a moment, especially after getting so much unwanted attention forced onto him. He realised it was probably Donut’s intention.

He owed the boy in his arms a medal.

He tried to tune into the conversation, realising he was losing himself. 

‘-seriously didn’t figure it out after all this time that we wouldn’t-’

‘I learnt.’ Simmons interrupted, forcing all his courage into that simple act. Grif stopped short in his tracks, turning to face him. ‘I just thought that after you found out, you’d start…’

‘Why on Earth would we do that?’

Simmons lifted a shoulder, suddenly feeling very exposed. He wasn’t sure why he’d ever wanted to wear short sleeves, even if he thought they wouldn’t look twice, except in disgust.

‘It’s how it started last time…’

Shocked silence reigned. Simmons rubbed self-consciously at his scars, and before he knew it Donut was turning to the two men in front of them and demanding they give Simmons a proper shirt, or a jacket or _something_ since he couldn't, he was in his armour.

Before he’d even finished speaking Grif was shrugging off his over shirt and handing it over. Simmons gratefully tugged it over his head, breathing in the smell and feeling of safety.

At that moment, he started to wonder why he’d ever thought they’d hurt him.

The silence grew between them all, and the only one who seemed unaffected by it was Donut, who was checking Simmons over to make sure he was physically as okay as he could be at the time. When he was done, he straightened, and backed away a few steps to stand between Grif and Sarge.

Simmons immediately felt vulnerable, like he was being teamed up against. He didn’t realise he’d made a reaching move after Donut until Grif was moving forward, but Donut stopped him.

‘Before anything, we need to know that you believe we won’t hurt you.’

Simmons felt himself freeze. He’d never expected that. He wasn’t sure what they wanted to hear. But for the first time, he thought that maybe, they wanted his own answer.

‘What I think?’ he whispered. Donut and Grif nodded. ‘I… believe… that you…’ he paused to swallow, to force his mouth to work, and he realised how intently they were all watching him. ‘…won’t hurt me.’

And suddenly it was like the floodgates had opened and tears were running down his cheeks and Donut was hugging him again and Grif was tackling them to the ground in a big group hug and he swore he even felt Sarge kneel and pat him reassuringly on the shoulder a few times.

‘You’re such a goddamn _idiot_.’ Grif muttered, face buried into somebodies something in the group hug, but it didn’t hold any force behind it and somehow, Simmons knew he didn’t mean it.

‘I- I just…’

‘Assumed based on past experiences that a similar thing would happen despite our individual personalities and relationships with you?’

‘Why is Donut the smart one here?’ Grif tried to joke, but his voice held an undertone of hurt.

‘Well, now that it’s feelings time… we might talk later, Private Simmons.’ Sarge said, and with a nod, a pat on the shoulder and a meaningful look, he stood and walked out, muttering about 'Finding Lopez' and 'Putting the no gooder to use.'

Simmons immediately dropped his gaze to the floor.

‘Hey, no.’ Grif said, struggling to sit up. He eventually managed, dragging Donut up with him, and Simmons followed suit, albeit reluctantly. ‘Don’t look like that. He didn’t leave _because_ of you.’

‘It’s how Sarge deals with emotional situations! He ignores them. But in this case, he made sure you knew he cared before he left, right?’ Donut said, raising a blonde eyebrow.

Simmons blinked. ‘I guess he did…’

‘Absolutely he did! When else have you seen Sarge show _any_ affection?’

‘Well, he was pretty affectionate when I almost died that time… offered to buy everyone lunch in celebration.’ Grif said, and Donut glared at him.

‘You’re not helping the situation here, mister. We have a dire situation on our hands, one that’s in need of a good fix.’

‘And how do you propose we do that?’

‘We show him we care.’

‘I’m not into threesomes…’ Grif started.

Donut laughed. ‘Don’t be ridiculous! I’m faithful. I was suggesting something else.’

‘Faithful to _who?_ You’re not dating anybody!’

‘Doc and Washington, of course,’ Donut stated, as if it was common knowledge.

Grif blinked at him. ‘That’s… new.’

 ‘Don’t be silly, we’ve been together for months!’

‘Um, congratulations?’

‘Thanks!’

‘I don’t…’ Grif gave up.

‘Anyway. Simmons?’ Donut asked, making sure he was still with them.

‘Yeah.’ he murmured.

‘I think he’s in shock.’ Donut said, frowning. ‘Stop that. Look, lifetime abuse doesn’t have a quick fix.’

‘Yeah, no shit, Sherlock.’ Grif muttered.

They were trying hard to regain a comfortable atmosphere.

Simmons was shocked that _that_ was the conclusion he came to, instead of that they were trying to ignore him, or pretend he wasn’t there. It was… unfathomable, but yet, there it was.

‘You really do care about me?’ he asked, interrupting whatever they were saying.

Donut just leaned over and toppled him into a hug again, expressing what he couldn’t say. Grif, too, decided to express his feelings through actions. He leaned over and put his forehead against Simmons’, closing his eyes and just remaining like that for a few seconds.

Eventually he pulled away. ‘Yeah. Yeah, Simmons, we care about you.’

‘Some more than others,’ Donut interjected playfully, looking at Grif meaningfully. ‘And in different ways.’ he added to the end when he didn’t get the reaction he wanted. ‘I mean, for example, some very _specific_ people may have very _specific_ emotions towards-’

‘Shut the fuck up, Donut.’

Simmons found himself smiling, and it felt so foreign on his face he felt confusion rise in him again. Instead of giving in to it he just fell playfully against Grif. The idiot Hawaiian couldn’t hold the both of them up, and along with Donut, they all crashed to the ground.

They stayed there in silence for a few minutes.

‘I feel like I should be saying something.’ Grif eventually commented.

‘You can’t fix a problem in a day, Dexter.’ Donut chastised. Grif was about to bitch back when he heard Sarge calling for Donut.

‘Donut! And Donut _only._ Get out here. Now. Pronto. Chop chop. Make haste.’

Donut frowned as he sat up. ‘You shouldn’t exclude our teammates from things! Some people are _very_ delicate!’ he stressed, but he moved out of the room, one last glance thrown over his shoulder at Simmons.

Simmons tried to cover the hurt on his face. He felt Grif take his hand, but neither of them commented on it.

‘Do you assume the worst for everything?’ Grif asked. Simmons knew what he was talking about.

‘It’s not as bad as you might think.’ he said, truthfully. ‘I’m used to it. Ever since I got here, I took everything personally, because I think- I thought… that it was purposeful. That kind of hurt, I’m used to. But you’re actually sitting next to me, telling me I was wrong, and you _do_ care, and, well… it has more of an affect than you might think.’

‘You believe us?’

A pause. ‘I’ve never had anyone tell me they do care, or that I was wrong in thinking bad about myself, so… it’s… helping. I’ve never had it before. It’s new, and I… I like it.’

‘Good. That’s… that’s good.’

Simmons turned onto his side, and Grif followed suit. ‘Simmons…’ The man in question chewed his lip, looking worried. ‘I know I can’t… I know I shouldn’t ask for you to stop… that… all at once, but I really want to.’

Simmons didn’t have an answer for that.

‘I just… I care about you, you idiot.’

‘So you never knew?’

Grif blinked, reeling back in shock. ‘Knew? Knew that you did this to yourself? God, _no!’_

‘But… the mirrors… the blood… I thought you noticed…’

‘And never cared?!’

He kept quiet because, well, that was exactly what he’d thought.

‘I mean, I noticed the glass, but I figured I’d either smashed it when I was drunk accidentally, or you’d been klutzy, or one of Sarge’s experiments, or Donut had swapped ours for his… I never thought…’

‘Oh.’

‘I mean, I joked about it once…’ Grif still seemed in shock. ‘And I never saw the blood. I mean, in the bathroom, but I thought maybe when you were shaving, you’d… or you’d opened an old wound, but… but never this.’

He leaned forward, making sure he was in Simmons’ line of sight, face open and expressive. ‘You never deserved this.’ he murmured, reaching for one of his arms and turned it over gently. ‘Not what you’ve done to yourself, not what your old squad did, not your family, none of it. I’ll fight you to death over that.’

At a loss for things to say, Simmons simply said ‘I never knew you had this much emotion in you.’

Grif laughed, once. ‘Most things I don’t give a fuck about. But this… this is real. It’s my best friend, hiding a secret this big from us… Thinking we’d hurt him…’

‘I used to spend every night sitting on the edge of the bed, waiting for one of you to come in and hurt me.’ He wasn’t sure why he said that, and the look Grif gave him, full of hurt, made him regret it.

‘That’s why…’ Grif breathed.

‘Alright, boys, I want you to get your sorry asses out here, pronto.’

Both of them sat upright, surprised. ‘I thought Sarge had…’ Simmons started.

‘Well don’t.’ Grif said, voice hard. ‘Please, stop assuming the worst of us. It… hurts. Fuck. It’s not your fault, I know. Just…’ he trailed off, getting up and offering a hand to the soldier still on the ground.

‘Sorry,’ Simmons murmured.

‘Don’t sweat it. C’mon, we should go see what Sarge is hollering about.’

The two of them made their way outside to meet Sarge and Donut, and Simmons was surprised to see Lopez hovering nearby.

‘So,’ Sarge stated, voice gruff and commanding as always, ‘I have a… new project. That’s… up for offer. For the most suitable soldier.’

‘What is it?’

‘A new body.’

‘A new what?’ Grif interrupted, scratching his head. He realised he was still holding tight to Simmons scarred hand. ‘That doesn’t seem physically possible. Besides, I don’t see anything.’

‘That’s because it doesn’t exist yet! When we’ve chosen our prime candidate, only then can we commence operation Freedom!’

‘Operation Freedom? _What_ is going on?’

‘What he means is he perceived how much Simmons hated his current body and more than likely desired a new one, and a fresh start, so he made Lopez scavenge as many pieces as possible in order to create a new and improved part biological, part robotic body.’

‘Donut, how do you- Wait.’ Grif stopped himself, eyes widening as the implications caught up. He looked between Simmons and Sarge. Sarge was staring impatiently at the pile of parts, tactful enough not to demand anything.

Simmons was staring at the ground in shock. Eventually, Donut nudged him.

‘Well, buddy? Do you want it?’ he asked gently, trying to figure out if this was a terrible move or not. When Simmons looked up, his eyes were watering, and Donut was about to rush into an apology when he _smiled._

‘I… would _love_ … I…’ he couldn’t seem to stop smiling, or make his voice work. This was perfect. He _loathed_ his body, had always desired a better one, or at least a different one, since he didn’t think he could get any worse. This was perfect.

‘So is that a yes, boy? Make it clear, for God’s sake.’ Sarge demanded, but he sniffed once and refused to meet anyone’s eye.

Simmons felt his smile grow impossibly wider. ‘I mean, yes, sir! I would love to nominate myself as a potential candidate for operation Freedom, sir!’

Sarge nodded. ‘Well, we have to make sure there are no other nominees before we commence the operation.’

Grif rolled his eyes. They knew Sarge was just making this bearable for himself, while still offering something for Simmons to hold onto, to know that he cared just as much as the rest of them.

…Maybe excluding Grif.

‘Well, while a bionic body _does_ sound nice…’ Donut contemplated, ‘I’m inclined to refuse any nominations on the basis that I’m comfortable with my body and quite enjoy the simpler parts of life. Also, Wash and Doc would _not_ be pleased!’

‘Stop talking about that.’ Grif complained. ‘You’re making it up.’

‘We’ve been dating for three months!’

‘Well said.’ Sarge complimented, ignoring their current tangent and nodding in respect at Donut’s decision. He turned to Grif. ‘Now, while I’m sure you would enjoy having a new body that wasn’t fat and ugly, you’re disqualified as a potential candidate.’

‘I’m always disqualified.’ Grif groaned, but Simmons knew he wasn’t serious.

‘On the basis of you’re simply too fat for any of the parts we’ve scavenged! And probably too ugly, too. It'd be a waste of supplies,’ Sarge continued, ignoring Grif’s interruption. ‘And since I myself am far too handsome for any alteration, that leaves our winning candidate! Congratulations, Simmons! You get to take place in our latest experimental project, operation Freedom!’

‘I’m not even that fat.’ Grif muttered in the background. Simmons felt a laugh burst out of him.

‘You shouldn’t say such mean things, Sarge.’ Donut interrupted, ‘You could cause some serious self-esteem issues! And don’t worry, Grif, you’re only just above recommended weight level.’

Everyone went quiet for a moment, looking at Simmons, but he just shook his head. They understood.

 ‘… minus ten points to Donut!’ Sarge cried. ‘If you were a candidate, you’d be disqualified due to not following regulations! Thankfully, you weren’t a nominee, so you get the job of prepping the subject for surgery.’

‘Uh…’

‘What are you waiting for? Project Freedom waits for nothing, get to it!’

‘Come on, Donut, the surgery prep stuff is this way.’ Simmons said, leading Donut into the base.

‘Why do you have all this stuff? I’m kind of scared.’ the blonde boy commented, following him inside.

As soon as they’d faded from earshot Grif turned to Sarge, a predatory smile on his face. ‘So…’ he started.

‘Don’t you say one word, you insubordinate nut hugger.’

‘The big mean Sergeant has a heart after all.’

‘I haven’t the faintest clue what you’re talking about, block headed moron.’

‘So you _didn’t_ do this to make Simmons feel better about himself?’

‘Lopez! Which tool should I use? The pointy one, or the spiky one?’

‘Por que no las-’

‘Excellent choice, Lopez!’

‘Sargey-wargey has a heart.’

‘Hey, guys, I’m back. I put Simmons to sleep already, he’s on the table.’ Donut decreed, skidding to a stop in front of them.

‘We have an operating table?’ Grif questioned. He scratched his head again.

‘I didn’t say the operating table, I just said table.’

‘Oh, gross, come on.’

‘Shut it!’ Sarge interrupted, leading them into the base. ‘Alright, Lopez, you’re my right hand man. Don’t bother arguing, I know what I’m doing. Donut, you’re my left hand man! Get in position.’

‘Yes, sir!’

‘Alright.’ Sarge said, moving away from the table where Simmons lay to address his team. ‘This is a very complicated procedure and will probably take many hours. It will undoubtedly be very taxing, and very difficult, and I have no doubt that some of us will find it too gruesome to handle and run squealing from the room!’

‘That’s me!’

‘Quiet, Donut! Don’t interrupt a man’s pep talk. But, I have faith in us as a team to pull through, and create the first robohuman known to mankind!’

‘Those already exist, Sarge.’ Grif sighed.

‘And since Grif will probably be stuffing his face while he watches and very definitely _not_ helping, I strongly believe the operation will be a resounding success! Without any hindrances, we should be able to replace all the necessary pieces, and create a-’

‘Terminado.’

‘… What? Lopez, I was in the middle of a very inspiring speech! Don’t go interrupting-’

‘Yo he hecho el trabajo.’

‘What do you mean you’ve finished- Oh.’ Sarge stared down at Simmons… or should he say, Simmons 2.0?

‘El debe despertar pronto.’ Lopez droned.

‘Hot damn! Good job, team, we really pulled through with this one!’ 

‘If by that you mean Lopez literally replaced half of Simmons’ body while you stood there delivering your _truly_ inspirational and _very_ heartfelt speech, then yeah. We really pulled through. Go team.’ Grif muttered.

Sarge frowned. ‘We don’t have time for your poor attitude, soldier, we have a man down-’

‘He’s waking up!’ Donut’s excited cry drowned out Sarge and Grif immediately ran forward.

‘Why is he awake so early? How much gas did you give him?’

‘Uh… a bit… I didn’t want to, you know, _kill_ him…’

‘Ohh, my head… oh, my entire body… Donut, you suck, I was barely unconscious for three quarters of that!’

‘Stop your bitching.’ Sarge commanded, and promptly administered painkillers. ‘How’s it feel? Is it operating at full capacity?’

‘I don’t…’ Simmons trailed off, pulling himself upright and testing his new limbs. All of his left arm and three quarters of his right arm were now fully mechanical, along with his entire left side of his torso, the top of his right leg and a small patch on the top of his cheek.

‘Here!’ Donut said, offering a mirror.

Simmons glanced up from where he’d been admiring his new hands and looked in the mirror. His mouth fell open, and an uncomfortable silence quickly fell.

‘You don’t… don’t you like it?’ Sarge demanded, but his voice gave the tiniest waver that betrayed how bothered he was.

‘Of course he likes it…’ Donut quickly assured, glancing at the older man. ‘He’s just… adjusting. Right, Simmons?’

Simmons finally forced his voice to work. ‘I- Yes! Yes! I love it! Oh my god!’ He began bouncing up and down, testing the new limbs and organs.

Sarge relaxed the tiniest bit, and Donut let out a full blown sigh of relief. Grif let the grin on his face take over, and he allowed Simmons to grab his hands and dance up and down with him.

‘You look fantastic.’ he said truthfully.

‘Si, si. Gracias, Lopez, gracias. Buen trabajo.’ Lopez said sarcastically, leaving the room.

‘Uh, yeah, gracias, Lopez! Much appreciated.’ Sarge called after him. ‘So, how’s the new body, Simmons?’

‘I love it.’ Simmons said truthfully, and he reached a metal finger up to wipe at the liquid on his cheek. Shit, he was crying. He took a deep breath and tried to reign his emotions in, at a total loss at to what to do. But Grif was smiling at him, so...

He spun and pulled Grif into a hug, feeling the soldier’s back crack with the accidental force he was applying.

‘My back-’ he whined, but didn’t pull away.

‘Don’t make this about yourself, Grif!’ Sarge yelled. Donut rolled his eyes and quickly exited the room.

‘Oh, look! Blues!’ he cried, and Sarge stiffened, glancing at the two before rushing out after him.

‘Where? The dirty scumbags, they sense weakness and _pounce!_ I’ll not stand for it! Donut, grab the…’

He faded out of earshot, and finally it was just Simmons and Grif again. He realised he was still holding tight to Grif and let up a bit, but the Hawaiian just pulled him close again.

‘Promise that your armour is the only red I’ll see.’ he whispered, and the sheer emotion in his voice made Simmons shiver.

‘I wouldn’t dream of ruining this.’ he promised, tucking his head onto Grif’s shoulder.

‘Amazing how fast somethings can turn around, hey?’ Grif mumbled.

Simmons thought to the last months of his life, to how they’d improved compared to the years before that, but he’d never dreamed he could find this level of happiness.

He knew he wasn’t magically fixed. But having a brand new (in some parts, at least) body, and _knowing_ his friends cared about him, cared about him _a lot_ … well, it went a damn long way.

‘Yeah,’ he murmured back, and he felt Grif’s lips press against his cheek for the briefest second before he went back to hugging him. ‘Thank you.’

He finally, for the first time in many, many years, felt loved. He never realised how much he needed them, or just how _much_ he cared about them. And that they felt the same way never ceased to be amazing to him.

When he woke up the next morning, he found Grif in his bed beside him, and Donut was curled up on the floor next to them. And he’d be damned if he didn’t nearly trip over Sarge asleep outside their room, his back to their door and shotgun in hand.

_Protecting him._

He couldn’t believe he’d woken up yesterday wondering if he was going to live to see nightfall.

**Author's Note:**

> i apologise for all mistakes in this and if there's any over the top or obvious ones hmu  
> RvB fandom needs some more goddamn love.


End file.
